


Who's the Boss: Novocaine

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Series: Who's The Boss [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Anal Sex, Child John Watson, Child Sherlock Holmes, East Coast road trip, Established Relationship, M/M, Williamsburg VA, travelling, twenty-something Greg, twenty-something Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-24 13:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6155473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade, a 20-something washed up baseball player and current housekeeper/boyfriend of Mycroft Holmes (20 something), is offered a baseball coaching position at a Florida college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sucker Punch

**Author's Note:**

> this is a year after Who's the Boss, but if you haven't read it, it's ok. I've included enough pertinent details that it won't be a problem :) of course if you want to stop and read [Who's the Boss](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4769579/chapters/10908239) first, I wouldn't complain ;)
> 
> This entire fic was beta read by 221Btls and Geronimoandbemagnificent. They're wonderful, and every error you find is mine. 
> 
> The title and the chapter titles come from [FallOut Boy's Novocaine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjtNPyVwMps)

Greg flipped his tassel from the right side to the left and punched the air to the audience’s applause. He searched the college ballroom’s seating for Mycroft and the boys; based on the cheering and wolf-whistles, he knew exactly where they were. Greg waved, and Mycroft blew the crowd a kiss.

After the ceremony, Greg fought tide of families leaving the second floor. He checked his phone again; they were waiting outside the men’s room on the lower level of the student center.

_No one has a bladder as infinitesimal as Sherlock’s--MH_

Greg laughed, reading the message in Mycroft’s droll, dry tone. Although Mycroft’s parents popped in and out of the US occasionally taking Sherlock with them on their research trips, they’d appointed Mycroft legal guardian for his 9-year-old brother. And every time that Sherlock could make Mycroft’s life hell, he grabbed the chance.

_**On my way—GL, proud graduate** _

He took the steps two at a time down to the first floor, unzipping his black graduation robe as he went. Something about it billowing behind him as he strode, self-assured and proud, seemed very British.

And very…hot.

Grinning, he flung open the stairwell door, and Mycroft looked up at the sound of the door mistakenly slamming against the stairwell wall.

“Here’s the man of the hour, Fairfield County College’s newest graduate.” Mycroft called out, directing Greg toward them. Greg looked confident and dignified in his robe, different than in his jeans and sweatshirt. Mycroft already had ideas for a private graduation celebration.

He reached out to pull Greg into a congratulatory hug just as Greg extended his hand. They laughed at the awkwardness, and several people in the crowd around them also chuckled. Greg’s face flushed for a moment as Mycroft pecked his cheek.

“What do you think of your old uncle now, John?” Greg asked, trying to pull John’s attention from his phone.

John looked up at Greg. “Still old.” And turned back to his phone.

Greg sputtered at his nephew’s gall, but John laughed at his exasperation.

Sherlock returned in time to hear the question. He studied Greg, who unpinned the graduation cap from his hair and removed the gown, balling it up under his arm. “Graduate. Associate Degree in Education. And recently shagged.” He folded his arms and grinned at John.

“How could you even know that. You _can’t_ know that.” Greg stammered and turned red as he glared at Sherlock. The crowd flowed around them as Greg turned to face the boys.

“I do now, thank you very much.” Sherlock held his hand out. John pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slapped a $10 bill in Sherlock’s palm. “Also, it’s not like you’re quiet about it.”

Mycroft watched Greg’s flushed face darken. Greg wasn’t a prude…much. And definitely _not_ in their bedroom. But he preferred not to discuss their relationship in public.

And since Sherlock knew that, he mentioned it at every opportunity.

“You suck.” Greg pointed to Sherlock and then to John. “And you. You also suck. Leave us alone. One day you’ll be disgustingly happy.” The boys snorted at the prospect, and Greg laughed. “ _If_ you find someone who’ll have you.”

“If we don’t leave soon, we shall lose our reservation at the restaurant.” Mycroft herded them out of the building and through oncoming traffic to the Range Rover. He opened Greg’s door for him, stealing a hug before Greg climbed into the car.

“Hey, handsome. Come here often?” Greg asked, nuzzling against Mycroft’s day’s-end whiskers. He brushed his lips over Mycroft’s.

Greg’s shoulders tensed for a moment, caught in the glare of a car’s headlights. Once the car passed, he relaxed against Mycroft again. “Only for special occasions. Beheadings. Public floggings. December college graduations.” Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek as he spoke, their other hands twined.

“How can I thank you for making me go back to school?” Greg slid his hand up Mycroft’s chest to his neck, tangling his fingers in the too-long hair at the nape.

Mycroft closed the distance between them, kissed Greg slow and sweet. “I am certain I can think of several ways. Most will involve your graduation gown and mortar board. Do be sure they make their way into the house.”

“They’re doing it again, Sherlock,” John said loud enough for Mycroft and Greg’s benefit.

“If they continue, you’ll owe me another ten.” Sherlock chortled at the double whammy of annoying the adults and possibly scamming more money.

“Shut up, both of you.” Greg laughed as he closed his door. “And you better not start this at dinner.”

Neither boy wanted to test Greg’s threat; over the past year, they’d been on the wrong end of a mop and scrub brush more times than they could count. Sherlock caught John’s eye and grinned wickedly.

“Now that you are a college graduate,” Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with pretend innocence. “Will you still be our housekeeper? Or will we hire someone to cook and clean like you used to do before you started sleeping with my brother?”

John gasped, covering up the giggle that escaped from Sherlock.

“That’s it.” Greg turned around to face the boys. “When we get home, you’re scrubbing bathroom grout. With a toothbrush.”

Sherlock scoffed, but Greg cut him off. “Your bathroom. The one you and John share. That’s right, mister.” Greg glared as Sherlock shuddered in revulsion.

Mycroft reached over and squeezed Greg’s thigh. He left his hand there, a warm, heavy weight reminding Greg how much Mycroft loved him.

“I wish we didn’t have reservations.” Mycroft spoke softly, stealing a glance at Greg. Greg thrummed with accomplishment and excitement, tapping his fingers against Mycroft’s. “You’re so hot when you’re bad ass.”

Greg turned to Mycroft and grinned. “You like when I take control?” His voice, as quiet as Mycroft’s, was thick with promise.

Pretend retching followed by more giggling from the back seat stopped any further flirting.

~*~

Mycroft had chosen the restaurant at the Fairfield Inn for their celebration. He remembered vividly the last time they’d come here—their first night together—and hoped Greg was thinking the same thing.

“Mycroft—I—” Greg was tongue-tied, unable to string words together to say how much he loved Mycroft. He wanted to kiss him here, in the reception area of the hotel, but he couldn’t. Not in this room of people who might know them. He guarded their privacy. Instead he took Mycroft's hand for a moment and squeezed it gently.

Decorated for the Christmas season with twinkling white lights and evergreen boughs, the restaurant was filled with Friday night dates and several other graduates that Greg recognized from this evening’s ceremony. As they waited for the maître d’ to seat them, a cheer rose up from the back corner of the room.

"Congratulations, Greg! We're so proud of you!" Mrs. Hudson, her boyfriend Billy, and Mycroft’s parents stood at a table for eight, clapping for him and calling them over.

Mrs. Hudson pulled Greg into a hug. "Hiring you last year was the best thing for this family."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I hired him, Mrs. Hudson." He pointed to seats for Sherlock and John then held his mother's chair for her, while Greg held Mrs. Hudson's.

Greg sat next to Mycroft and took his hand. “You did all this for me?” His eyes sparkled with the flicker of the candle’s flame.

“I’d do anything for you.” Mycroft cringed at the cliché as he said it, but he knew it was true. From the moment Greg moved in last year, agreeing to be a housekeeper in exchange for a better life for his nephew, Mycroft had been lost. A small dinner party was nothing; he would have gladly rented the hotel’s ballroom for Gregory.

Greg kissed Mycroft without thought to who might see, the world narrowing to only the two of them. “I love you. You are—you’re the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“Enough, now.” Mummy reached out to take the knife from Sherlock’s hand before he could tap it against his glass, calling more attention to the two men. “Gregory, tell us about your plans.”

Over dinner, Greg explained that without a Bachelor’s degree, he couldn’t teach, but that he was applying in local school districts as a substitute.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted to tell them that the current romance novel she was writing—“Yes, tons of hot, steamy sex,” she assured Mummy, who looked torn between being mortified and wanting a copy—featured a dishy, young, high school substitute teacher. She dropped her hand to Billy’s thigh and squeezed as she spun the plot in great detail to Mummy.

John and Sherlock had long ago given up listening to the adults, or they would have been glued to Mrs. Hudson’s vivid description of who was putting what where.

With his best selective hearing, Father ignored the women. “Do you have any other prospects, Greg?”

Greg swirled the Cabernet in his goblet, weighing his words. “An old friend contacted me on Facebook. We played A-League baseball together.”

Mycroft sat up a little taller, focusing on his food, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious he was hearing this for the first time. “What did he say?”

“When the team dropped him, he didn’t try to sign anywhere else. He went to school. Now he’s the baseball coach of a two-year college in Florida.” Greg kept his eyes on Father.

Mycroft turned to Greg, pressing his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Is he interested in speaking with you?” he said, when Greg looked at him. For the past year, he’d read Greg’s expressions and knew the code intimately. Worrying the bottom lip. Not looking at Mycroft. “You’re not excited?”

“He asked me to do a Skype interview, but basically, it’s mine if I want it.” Greg frowned and finished the last of the wine in his glass. “But I’m gonna tell him it wouldn’t work.”

Mycroft stared and grabbed Greg’s arm. “What? Why would you—”

Father tapped Mummy and motioned that they should switch seats so she could be closer to Mrs. Hudson, leaving the chair next to Mycroft for Father. When he was reseated, he wrapped his arm around the back of Mycroft’s chair. With a few light taps on his son’s shoulder, Father encouraged Mycroft to relax in the chair.

“Mykie, we should listen to Greg.” Father used the calm, rational _settle down and let’s talk this through_ voice Mycroft remembered from childhood. “Tell us about the position.”

With a deep breath, Greg told them what he knew. The job started in mid-January. The small, two-year Lake Jesup State College was in central Florida, close to Disney World. Greg’s friend was rebuilding the baseball team, starting with a completely new coaching staff. He’d already hired another guy they knew from their old team. Plus, if they liked Greg, they’d pay for him to get his Bachelor’s degree.

“Gregory, that sounds perfect.” Mycroft grinned and immediately checked online for information. “Have you seen this?” He flipped through Google Images, showing Greg the palm trees on the campus and picture after picture of sunshine and blue sky.

Father had leaned back in his chair, drinking his coffee and listening. “Greg, what do you believe is stopping you?”

Greg handed the phone back to Mycroft and folded his hands on the table. “First, there’s the boys—”

Mycroft opened his mouth to counter, but Father placed a firm hand on top of Mycroft’s. “We should allow him to speak.”

Mycroft nodded and watched Greg fidget with the napkin and fork. Tapping. Turning. Pushing food around.

“The boys, and y’know. Mycroft and me.” Greg waved his hand between the two of them, as if that would explain everything.

Father raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.

“Well, it’s not like Mycroft can commute to New York City from Florida.” Greg sighed, folding his napkin into a perfect square and then unfolding it.

There it was.

“Gregory. I’ve been offered a job in London.” Mycroft said, tapping his foot against Father’s under the table.

“Oh my God, you didn’t tell me.” Greg’s face brightened, and he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and tapped the calendar app. “When do you start? We’ll have to pack, get the boys’ school records—”

“You’ll come?” Mycroft asked, his voice soft with surprise.

Greg looked at Mycroft with a half-smile. “Don’t be stupid. Why did you wait so long to tell me—”

“You would move with me, without a second thought? But you don’t think I would do the same for you?” Mycroft held Greg’s hand in both of his.

The realization hit Greg, and Mycroft watched it dawn across his face. “I guess I thought, you have a real job and I—”

“You have the opportunity for a real job, Gregory. And you owe it to yourself to see this through. If you’re offered the position, we will figure it out. Together.” He dropped his chin on Greg’s shoulder.

Greg pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s forehead and rested there for a moment. “Wait. So we’re not moving to London?”

“We’re moving to London?” Sherlock asked, choosing the wrong moment to look up from his phone.

“Funny you say moving,” Mummy said, looking down the table to Father. “We’ve been offered positions at a university in France. Greg, if you’d agree, we’d like to take John and Sherlock with us.”

John bounced in his chair, forgetting he was supposed to act like a proper young adult. “No way? For reals?”

Sherlock told John every detail he knew about France, and John soaked them in as if he were cramming for final exams. They barely realized they were being corralled and herded toward the door of the restaurant.

“You two need the chance to talk without parents and kids around.” Father reached into his pocket and handed a hotel room key to Greg. “Congratulations on graduation and the interview. I know you two will make the right choice.”

Father shook Greg’s hand and then paused before he hugged Mycroft. “Are you too old for a hug?” He smiled wistfully and released Mycroft. “The room is yours tonight and tomorrow night. We’ll see you at home Sunday noon.”

Mrs. Hudson waited until the others left. When they were out of earshot, she said, “I’ve taken care of everything.” With a wink and a smile, she left them wondering.

“Gregory, I’m properly afraid of what she has done.” Mycroft laughed; for the first time since they talked about Florida, he could almost ignore the pain in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh God. She could have rented _entertainment_.” Greg air-quoted entertainment, picturing strippers or gentlemen sex workers lounging in their hotel room. “Wait. What if they’re inflatables?”

They spun out possibilities in the elevator to their floor. What if she’d left them black leather thongs. Or bondage toys. Or spanking benches.

“What if she left us a cage?” Greg laughed, picturing Mrs. Hudson standing over Billy stretched out in a long, thin bondage cage.

“Oh my God, what if she booked a room with a heart-shaped sunken whirlpool, or a champagne-glass tub?” Mycroft hadn’t been the same after he saw the advertisements for romantic getaways in the Pocono Mountain resorts.

Greg leaned against the door to their room, laughing so hard that he couldn’t even try to put the key in the slot. “First off, you jumped from cages to bubble baths? What the hell kind of experiences have you had? How are they even on the same level? And I doubt this place has that kind of tub.”

Mycroft pretended to pout. “They’re scary. How do you get into a 12-foot tall champagne glass? And how does the water get in? Clearly these are frightening questions.”

“Honest to God, My. I worry about you.” Greg dried his eyes and opened the door, bracing himself for whatever Mrs. Hudson provided.

The room was handsomely appointed, a king-size bed the center point. A suitcase lay open on the bed, and they recognized their clothing. Classical music played quietly from a radio on a bedside table.

“I’m a bit disappointed.” Mycroft looked around the room for black leather or vinyl. Finding neither, he sighed and sat on the bed without pulling the covers down.

Greg picked up an elegantly-wrapped gift that had been placed beside the radio. “Do we dare?”

Mycroft appraised the size of the box, small enough to fit in Greg’s hands easily. “How much mayhem could it contain?”

“The wrapping paper has dildos wearing Santa hats, Mycroft.” He laughed and shook his head. He opened the gift tag and read it aloud. “To my favorite boys. Enjoy yourselves.”

Greg unwrapped the box, handing the paper to Mycroft. “Who would have thought that Santa hats could do that?” Mycroft asked, studying the paper.

With hesitation born from experience, Greg opened the box. He expected a flash of confetti or a coiled snake; instead, nestled in tissue paper were several small bottles of flavored lubricants and strips of condoms—ribbed, textured, studded. “Happy Graduation to me!” he said as he held up the condoms to show Mycroft.

“I love that woman. I will never again complain when she breaks in and drinks all of our coffee.” Mycroft pulled Greg onto the bed and on top of him. He caressed Greg’s cheeks as he kissed him, his tongue reminding what it could do. Would do later.

Greg slid off Mycroft and onto the bed, facing him. “Thank you for tonight.” He slipped his fingers between the buttons on the shirt placket, stroking Mycroft’s skin. “And for making it possible for me to graduate. I know you pulled strings to get my random credits to count.”

“If you appreciate it—” Mycroft pushed Greg onto his back and straddled him in one move, “Show me.”

“So, it’s like that?” Greg raised an eyebrow, but his voice had dropped, thick and ragged with want. He pulled Mycroft forward so they were face to face and wrapped his fingers around Mycroft’s wrists to hold him in place.

Mycroft stared at Greg’s hands, pressing tight against him. “Oh yes. It’s definitely like that.”

Greg released his grip and reached up to hold Mycroft's face in his hands. He brought their lips together and kissed Mycroft. It started slow and warm, but they wanted more. More teeth. More need. More love. He knew, there and then, that Mycroft was his forever, and that thought didn’t frighten him. Instead, he felt like he could shatter from its brilliance.

"Why do you look at me like you're the lucky one?" Mycroft asked, his face flushed. He sighed and ran his tongue over his kiss-swollen lips.

"Because I am."

"No, you foolish man. I am the one who is lucky beyond anything I could have imagined."

Mycroft leaned back, rolling his hips over Greg’s already-hard cock. He unknotted Greg’s tie and slid it out from around his collar, then returned it to Greg. Mycroft held his own hands out, palms together. "Tie them."

Greg’s eyes widened as he wrapped the tie around Mycroft's wrists, firm but not painfully so. Greg kissed each of Mycroft's hands before easing him onto his back.

Mycroft stretched his legs long and wide. "Do you want to tie my ankles to the bedposts?"

Greg dropped his chin and stared at Mycroft. "You never wanted to do this before when I asked. This doesn’t have anything to do with an old friend contacting me, does it?”

Mycroft closed his eyes and held his breath before slowly releasing it. “Yes, I mean, No.” When Greg raised his eyebrow, Mycroft started again. “Yes, because your friend contacted you, but not the way you mean. I thought about you going without me, and I knew without any doubt, that I wanted to go with you. To be with you forever. That I would do anything for you.”

Mycroft looked at Greg, waiting for his response. He’d laid his soul bare to this man. For this man. For them.

Greg squeezed his eyes and tucked his lips between his teeth. When he spoke, it was a whisper. “You’re so stupid. Why d’ya think I could be away from you. You’re my best friend. My lover. My guide. My breath. Every time I think I couldn’t love you any more, I realize I already do.”

He untied Mycroft’s wrists and kissed his wrists where he’d been bound. Dropped a kiss atop each finger. He unbuttoned Mycroft’s linen shirt, ironed and soft under his fingers. Mycroft’s breath shuddered as Greg stopped to praise and bless each new patch of skin as he unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it aside.

As Greg unbuckled Mycroft’s trousers, Mycroft’s hips bucked up seeking pressure. Friction. A touch. He unzipped and kissed the bare skin under the waistband, at the fly. He slid them perfectly over Mycroft’s hips and off, leaving them rumpled out of the way.

Mycroft mewled as Greg’s breath warmed the gooseflesh at his hip.

“So glad you don’t wear underwear.” Greg sucked at the sensitive skin where Mycroft’s thigh and hip met, nipping and kissing until he watched the bite’s bruise blossom.

He brushed his lips over the head of Mycroft’s hard, flushed cock, but moved on, down inner thigh, the side of his knee. The raised ankle bone. Each toe.

With every kiss he said _I love you_. And Mycroft answered each one with words or tiny, gasping sounds.

And when he came back up and swallowed Mycroft, Greg was ready to cry with the joy and happiness for having found this man who was everything and thought he was nothing. He sucked and laved, swirled his tongue and with his hands he caressed Mycroft’s balls and trailed his fingers further back until Mycroft writhed beneath him, speaking in sounds and cries.

Greg pulled off before Mycroft came and calmed him with kisses that promised more and better. He moved off the bed and undressed, then grabbed one of the bottles of lubricant. He slicked Mycroft’s cock, careful not to tease him because he was so close, too close to the edge. Greg straddled Mycroft and slipped down onto his cock, beyond caring how loud either of them were. He rolled his hips and clenched around Mycroft’s cock each time, and when Mycroft snapped his hips up at the perfect angle, Greg howled. Mycroft glistened with sweat in spite of the chill to the room, watching Greg’s unfocused eyes.

Greg leaned forward to kiss Mycroft, bracing himself against the bed with his palms. They bit and kissed, rattled teeth and crashed noses, and when Greg comes in long, warm pulses between their bodies, when his body squeezes Mycroft’s cock, he’s lost. He’s lost to the orgasm, to the love. To their life together.

Eventually, when he could think that clearly, Greg rolled off Mycroft and padded to the bathroom. He returned with a warm facecloth to clean them before they climbed under the covers and fell asleep curled against each other.

They passed the weekend in bed. Their only concession to the outside world was asking Housekeeping to drop clean towels outside their door. Thanks to Mrs. Hudson, who packed a hamper of various cheese and crackers, they didn’t even need room service. Greg used his phone once, to Facebook his friend and agree to the interview.

They talked about the possibility of Greg coaching. About moving and what that would mean for them. About staying and what that would mean for them. They made love too many times to count, and sometimes, that meant simply lying together until they fell asleep, holding hands.

And by Sunday when they checked out, they knew.

If Greg were offered the position the next day during the Skype interview, they would be in Florida in time to start his job on January 4th.


	2. Worst Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg plans the entire trip from Connecticut to Florida, And Mycroft has tried reeeeeeeally hard to go with the flow. to live in the moment. to give over control. 
> 
> What could go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it will get worse before it gets better. #happyEndingsAllAround
> 
> The fic title and the chapter titles come from [Novocaine by FallOutBoy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hjtNPyVwMps)

Greg drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in the stillness of the Range Rover. The vein on the side of his jaw throbbed in rhythm with the beat.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice sounded like crack of gun fire in the silence. “You couldn’t have anticipated unusually heavy traffic before dawn.”

“Yes, I mean, No. Oh, I don’t even know what I mean!” Their car inched closer to the toll booth. The traffic jam was 10 cars deep and 15 cars wide. “It’s¬--I wanted to surprise you. I made reservations on the 7am ferry so we could watch the sun rise over the Delaware Bay. But we won’t make it.” Greg tapped the dashboard clock, his nail click-clacking like a metronome.

Mycroft took Greg’s hand and brought it to his mouth, partly to soothe Greg and partly to make him stop the noise. Greg smiled with a sigh, and they moved a half-car length forward.

“We have more than an hour until the ferry departs. And if we do not arrive on time, I’m certain there is another.” With a final kiss, he released Greg’s hand.

Greg turned to Mycroft and smiled warmly. “Thanks. But you'da known that people would be traveling back home and about the tolls and¬--” he pawed through the cup holder for coins, “¬Exact change lanes.”

Since they’d had less than a week between the job offer and moving day, Mycroft suggested dividing up the responsibilities. He’d prepared John and Sherlock for their trip, expedited John’s passport, and secured their school records so they were ready to leave on the 22nd.

Greg had chosen to plan the route, book the hotels, find a place to live. Although they checked in with each other, they hadn’t had much time to sit and chat. Mycroft offered to take over any tasks, like researching neighborhoods that would be appropriate for them to settle into, but Greg "had it covered".

Mycroft struggled with giving over control, but he trusted Gregory. He’d run the house impeccably for the past year. He could certainly plan a straight route down the East Coast and find an apartment near the college. No matter how often Mycroft's fingers itched to search Lake Jesup State College, he didn’t. He needed to let go.

“I’m sure you have done an admirable job of planning.” Mycroft readjusted his seat and found a more comfortable position. “You don’t need me. You are looking at New Mycroft. The reboot. Mycroft 2.0. I can sit back and, as you people say, go with the flow.”

He’d promised Greg he would relax and enjoy the journey. The _getting there_ , surrounded by air quotes every time he thought the phrase.

He could do that. He could be spontaneous.

He just needed to, you know. Plan for it.

On Christmas night, they’d packed the Range Rover with the items they were taking to Florida. Mycroft had decided¬—with Greg’s approval¬—that they’d start brand new. New everything. Besides clothes, electronics, and a few precious books, they were leaving most of their possessions in Connecticut.

“I set the alarm for 3am. If we leave by 4, we’ll miss most of the traffic and make really good time.” Greg’d grinned as he kissed Mycroft good night and rolled over. He punched his pillow and settled in, falling asleep in seconds as he did every night.

Mycroft had stared at the clock. It was 8. At night. Even old people were still awake at 8 on Christmas night. Hell, his parents stayed up later than that. Mycroft lay on his back and watched the neighbors’ Christmas lights blink through the blinds. He rolled to his right side. He rolled to his left side.

He’d picked up his phone to check the distance from Fairfield to Lake Jesup, then sighed and put the phone back on the nightstand. He’d promised Greg he wouldn’t micromanage.

After a half-hour of flip-flopping, Mycroft’d slipped out of bed, grabbed his robe, and headed for the kitchen. A cup of warm cocoa would help him feel sleepy. He settled on the sofa in the living room, tapping his fingers as he waited for the rich chocolate to cool enough to drink. He’d left his phone in the bedroom so he wouldn’t be tempted to go online. And no matter how much Mrs. Hudson raved about it, Pride and Prejudice was not improved by Zombies.

When Mycroft returned to bed, he found Greg cradling Mycroft's pillow. His breath caught at the sight; Greg looked happy and young. Sometimes Mycroft forgot that Greg was only a few months shy of 23. He, himself, wouldn’t turn 25 until summer. The past year as surrogate parents to John and Sherlock had been a heavy load, but now they were free to be Mycroft and Greg. Holmes and Lestrade. _MyStrade._

Mycroft slid under the covers and curled up to Greg, who released the pillow and caressed Mycroft’s bare hip. Greg roused only long enough to mumble “Love you.”

Mycroft’s heart fluttered every time Gregory said that. With a sigh of contentment, Mycroft fell asleep.

~*~

 

Greg pulled the Range Rover up to the vehicle loading area at the Cape May-Lewes Ferry as the attendant was closing the gate.

“We have a reservation!” Greg yelled out the open window. The attendant turned around and Greg waved the printed ticket.

The salty air chilled the inside of the car, regardless of the blasting heat and seat warmers. Mycroft bit his lip not to laugh at Gregory flailing, intent on making this trip perfect. How could Greg not know that simply being with him was perfection.

Once parked aboard the ferry, they left the SUV and wandered the deck, gloved hand in gloved hand and scarves covering their mouths and noses. They cuddled against the port rail and watched the sky turn pink and orange and yellow as the sun rose over the Delaware Bay. Mycroft slid his scarf down just long enough to kiss the tip of Greg’s nose and whisper “Love you, but enough of this. Let’s get inside.”

Hot coffee in the heated concession area did more to warm them than the kiss did, and before they’d finished their second cup, the overhead announcement directed them to return to their cars. They disembarked and crossed New Jersey off their list of states on their way to their new home.

 ~~Connecticut~~ , ~~New York~~ , ~~New Jersey~~ , Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina. South Carolina. Georgia. Florida.

They had five days to drive the 1200 miles, which according to Google Maps would take only 18 ½ hours. Plenty of time to see the historic sites along the way.

“But nothing from the colonies’ unfortunate aggression against Mother England.” Mycroft told Greg quite seriously. “It’s a bleak time in my country’s history. It’s really rather better if we put it out of our minds.”

Greg watched him, waiting for Mycroft’s face to crack a smile. Something to show he wasn’t actually serious about the Revolution.

“I’m quite sincere. What I would like to see are sites for your War for States’ Rights.” He ticked off on his fingers: The Citadel. Charleston. Savannah. It was the first and last stipulation he made. He did grudgingly agree to stop at a living museum in Virginia, where costumed interpreters embodied colonial citizens “from a time when they still recognized their place.”

Greg saw the smirk this time before Mycroft turned away. “Just doing your duty for Queen and country?” Greg patted Mycroft’s knee as they drove the country highway though Maryland.

“It is my sworn duty to subvert the success of the colonies at every opportunity and bring them back under the Queen’s reign.” Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest for emphasis.

Greg patted his knee again, and then slid his hand further up Mycroft’s inner thigh. “You do that. Make your Queen proud.” Greg bit his trembling lips but then burst out. “Queen!”

Mycroft removed Greg’s hand from his thigh and dumped it back on Greg’s. “Who are you calling a queen?”

Greg placed his hand back on Mycroft’s inner thigh, close enough for his finger to stroke his zipper placket. “You’re _my_ queen.”

Mycroft harrumphed and looked out his side window, but didn’t chase away Greg’s hand. “That’s right. And don’t you forget it.” He sounded as irritated as he could for as long as he could, until his giggles betrayed him.

~*~

With Greg’s frequent bathroom breaks and an extended lunch in Chincoteague (“No, Gregory, you cannot pat the ponies.”), their 8-hour trip spread to over 12 hours.

  
By mid-afternoon, they’d parked at the visitor’s center in Colonial Williamsburg, not at all sure what a living museum offered. They purchased visitor passes and booked a hotel room for several nights, hoping to also see Yorktown and Jamestown.

Exhausted from driving, Greg nodded off while he waited for the clerk to return his credit card. Mycroft finished the payment and guided Greg back to the car. Watching him settle into the passenger’s seat and fall asleep, Mycroft decided a nap was more important than dinner in one of the historic taverns. They could start fresh the next day.

After an hours-long nap, Greg was extremely thankful for Mycroft’s thoughtfulness. He showed Mycroft how much in the tub. Then in the bed. They took a late stroll around the village, illuminated by the fires in the cressets around the Governor’s Palace Green. Greg declared them romantic, as they raised their gloved hands toward the embers burning in the metal basket.

“I’d buy a dozen if it meant I’d get to see you so happy and at ease.” Mycroft smiled shyly at Greg, whose own grin was full and wide, twinkling in his eyes. They held hands and walked the few blocks to their Inn.

Housekeeping had turned the bed down and the heat up; their room was toasty when they undressed and slid under the covers. Greg warmed his cold feet on Mycroft’s legs, and Mycroft sighed as he fell asleep wrapped in Greg’s arms.

 

~*~

The next morning Greg lured Mycroft from the warmth of their bed with the promise of gourmet coffee and fresh-from-the-oven southern biscuits with butter and honey. “Real biscuits. Not cookies,” Greg teased before he ordered.

Mycroft found a corner booth and unwound himself from his winter clothing. Each day, Florida sounded better and better. He checked the weather app on his phone. High of 19 in Connecticut. 34 in Virginia. 76 in Florida. A tiny slice of heaven.

Greg returned with coffee and a plate piled with golden-brown biscuits. “What do you want to do today?” he asked as he buttered one for each of them.

Mycroft leered and said, “I’m not sure I am capable of that quite yet.”

Greg’s full, loud laugh drew polite smiles from the other mid-morning customers. “I have a map of the area and a list of stuff going on.” He pulled his phone and a wadded brochure from his coat pocket and unfolded it on the table, flattening the wrinkles.

Greg looked up in time to see Mycroft lick the slicks of honey from his fingers and pushed his plate away. “What?” he asked, now wiping his hands on his napkin.

Greg swallowed hard. “You can’t do that.” His voice cracked as he spoke. “Not in public anyway.” He felt his ears flush, and he dropped his hand to his lap.

Mycroft grinned and slid next to Greg. “Let’s see what events are occurring today.” He repositioned the crinkled map so they could both read it.

Greg’s phone vibrated, loud against the wooden tabletop. “It’s a Florida number. Maybe it’s someone from the college.” As Mycroft read the events for today, Greg answered the call.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft watched Greg’s smile grow as he listened to the person on the other end of the call. “Yeah, we’re already in Florida,” Greg lied. “We made great time.”

He looked at Mycroft and rolled his eyes. He mouthed, _What could I say?”_ “A barbecue tomorrow to introduce the new coaches to the team? Noon at your home. Sure. Text me your address.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and pointed to the list of daily events. They were going to see the Governor’s Palace. Eat at a tavern. He was going to take Gregory for a ride in one of the elegant horse-drawn carriages. Talk to him about their future, as Florida was a right-to-marry state. He pointed again, making sure that Gregory saw him.

Greg shrugged. He mouthed _What can I do?_ still listening to the other end of the conversation.

“Great. Yeah. I’ll definitely be there. Ah, Skipper, I’m not traveling alone,” Greg said to his new boss, ignoring Mycroft’s pointing and tapping. “Is it okay with you if I bring along my friend?”

_Friend._


	3. This Is Our Culture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobic Words  
> Please do not read this chapter if they are a trigger. Leave me a comment w/ your email address and I'll send you a chapter summary
> 
> Mycroft and Greg roll into FL and to a party at the Coach's house. They seem like Good People, but team life is more than Mycroft realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rough.  
>  that by the end of ch4 you'll think it was worth it.

Mycroft swallowed the ache of the word friend. The coach must have caught Greg off guard, because they were more than friends.

“Hey, I’m sorry—” Greg said, disconnecting the call.

 _There_. Mycroft breathed easier with the apology. _Caught off guard_.

“—but we have to get back on the road.” Greg finished the last gulp of his coffee and stood up.

Mycroft’s stomach lurched and for a moment he believed he would vomit in this lovely little café in front of the unsuspecting customers whose lives seemed perfect. _I’m sorry but we have to get back on the road_. “Wait. You’re sorry what?”

Greg smiled, holding out a hand to help Mycroft stand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told him we were already in Florida. It just slipped out.”

Mycroft lost the rest of Greg’s explanation in the nausea that rose again and the white noise in he heard like a dissonant symphony. He blurted “Excuse me” and bolted for the bathroom.

He locked the bathroom door, grateful he could be alone. He ran icy water over his wrists hoping to quell his body. It wouldn’t help his racing thoughts.

Mycroft closed the cover on the toilet seat and sat, regulating his breathing. Slow in, Slow out. Slow in, Slow out. As his heart returned to normal, as the white noise disappeared, as his stomach settled, he attempted to bring his rational mind back online. _Greg is a private_ person. No one needs to know our business. He likely is unaware that it upset me. Privacy. Our business. The world doesn’t need to know.

So deep was Mycroft in his head, he almost missed the light rap on the door.

“Honey, are you ok? You didn’t look so good.” Greg tried the doorknob. “Can I come in?”

Mycroft plastered on his diplomat face, calm with an understanding smile, and opened the door. “Yes—I—I think I’m more affected by these life changes than I had expected.” _It wasn’t a lie. This was absolutely a life change_.

Greg’s grin returned. “You look better.” He stroked Mycroft’s face, the worry lines, the tentative start of crow’s feet, the drawn cheeks. “Let’s head out. It’s at least 10 hours.”

As they gathered their coats and left the café, Greg held the door open for Mycroft. They walked hand-in-hand to the hotel. “Love you,” Greg said as he brushed his thumb over Mycroft’s.

Casually. So casually. As casually as he could, Mycroft said, “Yeah?”

Greg stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, crowded with holiday tourists jostling them and grumbling. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.” He pulled Mycroft toward him. “What’s going on?”

Mycroft decided at that moment that he wouldn’t cower, wouldn’t just be grateful for any scrap thrown to him. He was the damn British government, and it was time to act like it. “You called me your friend.” He blew on his hands as if to warm them in the frigid air; really, he needed to do something with them or he would wring them like a child.

Greg’s mouth fell open and he shook his head. “What? I don’t—” His brow wrinkled as he thought, trying to make sense of what Mycroft said.

“On the phone to your boss.” He grabbed Greg’s hand so they could continue walking, but Greg wouldn’t move.

“Mycroft. Listen to me.” Greg held Mycroft’s hand. “He’s my boss. I’m not—” He looked around and realized it was futile to hope for privacy, but he could lower his voice. “I’m not going to tell him over the phone that I’m gay.”

Mycroft squared his shoulders and stared at Greg. His lips were set in a challenge, until he spoke. “You’ll tell him?”

“Of course I’ll tell him.” The implied _duh_ was obvious. “Wait. Is that what was wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” Mycroft rolled his eyes and tried to retrieve his hand, but Greg wouldn’t let him.

“You’re an idiot.” Greg pulled Mycroft into a narrow alleyway, to get away from the tourists. “You worked yourself up over that when you should know better.”

Mycroft’s face heated at the words and he jammed his free hand into his coat pocket.

Greg’s voice softened and he coaxed Mycroft’s fist back out. “You know I’m private. And now that I’m coaching, I have to go slow. Not everyone is as understanding as you’d want them to be.”

“I’m sorry that I made you mad.” He leaned in and kissed Mycroft, holding him until he heard a voice say _Good Lord, will you look at them?_

Greg cut off the kiss and backed away. “C’mon. We have a lot of road to cover.”

~*~

They pushed straight through to Florida, each of them taking turns with the 11-hour drive. By the time they pulled up at a hotel in Lake Jesup, Greg and Mycroft had settled into silence, afraid they would say or do something to make the other snap.

“Maybe if we ate something we wouldn’t be so cranky.” Greg said as he struggled to carry his overfilled suitcase to their room. He’d tried three times in his mind to form the sentence before speaking. He wasn’t actually sure about the one he chose.

“You are likely correct, but I cannot contemplate another fast food meal today.” Mycroft wheeled his suitcase into the room. “I want a hot shower and a soft bed.”

Greg’s stomach growled as he rooted through his suitcase for pajamas. “Ignore that,” he said, his back to Mycroft.

Mycroft came up to Greg and touched his arm. “If you’re hungry, honey, we can find something. There must be a restaurant close.”

Greg turned and slid his arms around Mycroft’s waist. He bit his lip and hesitated before speaking. “Are we okay?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “No. You’re hungry. And you’re quite ugly when you don’t eat.”

Greg sighed and rested his forehead against Mycroft’s. “That’s not what I mean. I feel like we’re—off. Like there’s something bad between us.”

Mycroft understood. They hadn’t laughed or sung. They’d barely spoken during the drive. He kissed Greg gently and caressed his cheek. _Discuss it now? Leave it until they were more rested? Let it go?_

Mycroft kept his voice light. With a smile, he grabbed his room key and wallet. “I saw signs for vending machines. We’ll find something to tide you over until breakfast.”

He returned shaking two mini bags of pretzels like maracas. “Dinner fit for two kings.”

Greg laughed as he grabbed one of the cans of Pepsi and popped it open. He picked up the remote for the television and settled on the bed, flipping through the stations.

Mycroft sat on the bed, his legs crisscrossed and his arms folded over his chest. He unfolded them and picked up his snack and changed his mind. Opened his soda and took a swig. Picked up his phone, toyed with it, returned it to his lap. “Gregory—”

“Mycroft, you’re a bundle of nerves.” Greg slipped the phone from Mycroft’s hand and put it on the bedside table, then he took Mycroft’s hands in his. “What’s the matter?”

Mycroft sighed and looked up from their hands. “I am aware that tomorrow is not the optimal time to tell your new employer about…us.” Mycroft waved his hand between them, trying to ignore the maelstrom in his stomach. “But you do promise you will do that, don’t you?”

Greg released their hands, crooked his little finger and linked it with Mycroft’s. “I pinky promise. And I’ll double promise with a kiss.” He gently covered Mycroft’s lips with his, and the tension bled out of Mycroft’s shoulders and back. “I _never_ break a pinky promise.”

Mycroft nodded, his eyes closed. He still felt the touch of Greg’s lips on his; it was his favorite feeling in the world.

“C’mon. Let’s go to sleep.” Greg removed his trousers and shirt, dropping them on the floor next to the bed. “You, too.” He watched while Mycroft removed his clothes and slid between the sheets. Greg curled behind him and held him, his breath warming Mycroft’s bare shoulder as he fell asleep.

 _No. This is my favorite feeling in the world_. Feeling safe and secure, Mycroft nodded off.

~*~

“Should we have brought wine? We should have brought wine.” Mycroft stood behind Greg as he rang the doorbell.

“Ball players don’t bring wine to other ball players,” Greg said, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “It’s fine.”

“Flowers. We should have brought flowers.”

“They definitely don’t bring flowers.” Greg laughed as the door opened.

“Welcome. Welcome.”

Mycroft looked past the short, chubby man who’d answered the door, searching for the head coach.

“Stamford, you ugly motherfucker. I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any uglier.” Greg’s voice sounded incredulous as he stood back and stared.

“Jesus Christ, Lestrade, you stupid motherfucker. I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any stupider.” The man growled in response.

Mycroft’s jaw visibly dropped. _Oh for fuck’s sake. Say this wasn’t a mistake_. When Greg lunged forward, Mycroft reached to stop him from attacking the idiot. It took a moment to process that they were—hugging?

“At least you’re smart enough to have quality friends.” The man stepped back and assessed Mycroft before offering a giant grin and extending his hand. “Mike Stamford. I’m the head coach who will absolutely regret hiring this asswaffle.”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, biting his lip. “Skip, this is my—”

“My-croft Holmes.” Mycroft stepped forward and shook the coach’s hand. “Thank you for inviting us today.”

Coach looked him up and down, the razor-creased chinos that somehow defied wrinkles and a long-sleeve shirt that was more board room than ball game. He looked over to Greg, wearing a wrinkled Mets t-shirt and cargo shorts, and back to Mycroft. “How’d y’all ever become friends? I don’t think y’all are hanging out at the same titty bars.”

Greg blushed; he had no idea how to answer the question, since _I was his housekeeper_ would generate more good-natured harassment than he wanted to deal with.

“Stamford, invite these men in.” A drawl floated up from behind the coach, who moved aside to make room. “I’m Ashley, Stamford’s wife and much better half. Y’all come in and make yourselves at home. I’m pretty sure you’ll be here more this season than you will be at your own home.”

Ashley disappeared back into the kitchen as Stamford brought them through the house to the back deck where the party was in full swing. He turned to Greg and Mycroft with a smile. “The kids never miss free food.”

Stamford hit pause on the sound system, stopping the music so he could be heard. The team members jeered and complained about the lack of music, until they saw coach with his arm around some new guy’s shoulder. “This is our new assistant coach, Greg Lestrade. We played A-ball together. Go easy on him—at least today.”

He restarted the music, and the chatter ramped back up. None of the boys approached Greg; he and Mycroft grabbed sodas from the cooler and moved to the corner of the deck until Ashley drew them back to the table with a platter of sandwiches.

“Coach is going to fire up the grill if y’all want to wait. These are just appetizers to stop them from raiding the kitchen.” She grinned at them as she offered them the platter. “Take one now before the locusts descend.”

Mycroft liked her, the way she made him feel welcome without question or judgment.

As she predicted, once the team hit the table, the sandwiches were gone, but Greg used the chance to meet the players. Mycroft drifted back to the corner of the deck with his half-sandwich and Coke; he watched Greg, envious of the easy way he slotted into the group and was accepted.

“He seems charming.”

Too lost in thought, Mycroft missed Ashley joining him at the deck rail.

“I think he’ll make a great addition to the team.” She smiled and held her can of Coke up in a toast.

Mycroft raised his, and they clinked cans. “This will be an excellent experience for him. And he is quite good.”

Ashley stood next to Mycroft, watching him. “What about you? What brought you to Florida?”

Mycroft tore apart her sentence, searched for innuendo, condemnation. Judging it honest and casual, he answered. “I was looking for a change of pace. And Gregory—Greg—decided to move, and he had room in the car for me.”

She listened and nodded, turning away from the party to look out into the yard. “Interesting choice for a city boy like you. Y’all need to be careful down here, though. The sun is too strong, and you’re going to burn without a good sunblock.”

Coach lit the grill and dropped hamburgers onto it. Somewhere in the middle of the laughter and sizzle of the meat, Mycroft heard Greg’s voice, the hard, harsh Brooklyn accent mixing with the southern drawls. He turned away from the party, elbow to elbow with Ashley watching a black cat stalk a butterfly in the yard.

“What do you do when you’re not uprooted?” Ashley closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun, the warmth unexpected at the end of December.

“I’m a minor official with the British government. I’ll be commuting to the British Consulate in Miami.”

Ashley laughed, throaty and low like her voice. “Not from here, you’re not.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, biting the inside of his cheek. “I beg your pardon.”

“Honey, if you mean commute, like, drive there every day, we’re nowhere near Miami.”

Mycroft squeaked a noise that Ashley took for surprise. “Nowhere?”

“Four, four and a half hours away.” She considered her estimate. “Without traffic, that’s about right. Didn’t you check the map?”

Mycroft stuttered “last minute…spontaneous…Gregory was in charge of that…not micromanage.”

“You split the planning, and you didn’t want to take over, right? It killed you, but you didn’t look, right?”

Mycroft nodded, shock and misery painted on his face. “I did peek once. But I found the one right near Miami.”

“Oh, sugar, I’m sorry.” Ashley rubbed his back. “But with Skype and the right software, you could probably telecommute. It’s not the 1980s anymore, right?”

Mycroft didn’t respond.

“Didn’t really move down here for the Miami job, did you?” Ashley deliberately kept her focus out in the yard, watching the kitten pounce at the grass as the butterfly flew away.

Mycroft liked her. How she may have guessed but didn’t presume to ask. Her kindness. And politically, she seemed like an excellent ally to cultivate. Mycroft decided to trust her, even if only a little bit. He told her Greg had answered his advertisement for a housekeeper, to offer his nephew a better quality of life. How he’d enjoyed the arrangement, and he’d supported Greg’s decision to move.

“Could’ve found another housekeeper.” Ashley commented, her voice neutral.

Mycroft watched her out of the side of his eye, gauging her intent. “An excellent one is difficult to find.”

“Especially one who looks like that in shorts. I’m just saying.”

They turned back toward the group. Greg stood amid the players, already laughing and sharing stories. He radiated comfort and belonging in a way that Mycroft had never felt.

_Well, only when he was with Greg._

Ashley patted his shoulder and left for round two of food. Mycroft smiled as she left, wondering how much of what she heard and how much of what she assumed would make its way to her husband.

When the players heaped their plates with food, Coach took the chance to talk about the upcoming season and their schedule.

“Having a good time?” Greg asked, his face ruddy from the sun and laughter. He handed Mycroft a plate of food, and he balanced his own plate and a red, plastic cup.

Mycroft took the plate and peered into Greg’s cup. “Beer? Is anyone here over 21?”

Greg shrugged. “You want one?”

Before Mycroft could reply, Stamford called for Greg to join him and clapped him on the shoulder. Mycroft winced. He wasn’t sure he would get used to all of this touching. “Y’all need to go easy on this man. He’s going to be a full-time student, too.”

Stamford smiled wide at his surprise announcement, which caught Greg off-guard. “Wha?” He waved Mycroft over.

Ashley called the team for dessert to give the three men the chance to talk. Greg held Stamford’s arm, holding him in place. “We didn’t talk about this.”

“Technically, the college requires all instructional personnel have at least a Bachelor’s Degree, but because I fussed, we’re skirting the requirement for now, as long as you’re enrolled as a full time student. The college will pay your tuition, and you can take your classes online or go over to the university.”

Grinning, Greg turned and—stopped himself just before he grabbed Mycroft into a hug. “Fuck, Mycroft. This is huge. I couldn’t afford this.”

“Yes, it really is.” Mycroft’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. A full time job and a full time course load would be brutal, but they’d figure it out. It would only be for two years. And, Mycroft shook his head at his own stupidity. _It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go…certainly not the consulate._

A good-natured scuffle broke out near the food table as the boys reached over each other for the freshly-baked cookies. A gangly boy, all arms and legs, tripped over a chair leg and launched his red cup filled with beer. Direct hit down the back of a thick, burly kid who barely checked himself from swinging his fist.

“Watch what you’re doing, you fucking faggot.” The burly kid growled at his teammate and removed his wet shirt to wipe his back.

The others laughed, not bothered by the words. Mycroft heard Cap mumble _faggot_ again, and for the second time in two days, he felt his food fighting to stay down.

Greg’s face was pale, the vein in his jaw throbbing, and Mycroft knew he didn’t look any better. He nudged Greg’s shoulder with his and pointed his head toward Coach, who hadn’t blinked at the vile comments.

Mycroft stared at Greg, whose shoulders dropped. He whispered, “What can I do?”

 With frightening calm, Mycroft placed his soda on the table. He shook his head. “I’m not going to stand here and grant this behavior my tacit approval. Alone inside is better than this.”

Mycroft stalked away, his nails cutting half-circles into the palms of his fists. He knew his face was red like flames, because he could feel the heat rolling off him. Greg called him to Come back. Please., but he couldn’t open his mouth because he knew what he would say, with seething anger.

All of a sudden, 75 degrees in December didn’t seem like a little slice of Heaven. More like a giant pit of personal Hell.


	4. Now I'm Just Numb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, Greg is an idiot. He pinky promised Mycroft. Why does his fear over-ride everything?  
> Luckily, he's smarter than he looks ;}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised you two things: It was gonna get worse before it got better. So. It's gonna get worse, and then it gets way freakin better. <3
> 
>  
> 
>   
> 

“Let’s go, babe. No pitcher. No pitcher. He’s done.” Greg stood on the third base line, clapping and yelling to their batter. “Stick a fork in him!”

The small crowd hollered, loudly supporting their team on the cool February afternoon. Mycroft sat behind the Penguins’ dugout with Ashley Stamford and the players’ girlfriends. They’d absorbed him into their group even though he repeatedly explained that he and Greg were just friends.

Each time he said it, his chest felt heavy. He’d told enough misdirections and half-truths in the course of his work; he never wanted to live them.

“Mycroft, sugar. Are you alright? You look ill. It wasn’t my cookies was it?” Ashley pulled down her oversized sunglasses and peered over the top. She frowned, tiny lines etching her lips.

Mycroft turned his face away from her toward the winter sun’s weak rays.

"What is it honey? You two not getting along?"

Mycroft redirected his attention to the game but looked at Ashley from the corner of his eye. “You make us sound like newlyweds.”

She half smiled and raised her eyebrow.

“I keep telling you—” He stuttered out his denial, but the words stuck in his throat.

“You look like you lost your best friend, Mycroft.” Ashley took a cookie from the baggie, bit into it and grimaced. “I see the way you look at him, and I see the way he looks at you.” She crumbled the cookie and sprinkled it under the bleachers for the birds as she weighed her words. “I’m a good listener, and I don't spill secrets. And I’d never judge.”

Mycroft mulled over what Ashley had said, and during the 7th inning stretch, he spilled six weeks of doubt and anger and hurt.

How he did nothing. All. Day. Long. He cleaned the house, but it was never really dirty. He’d experimented with cooking, but in the end he’d stopped. It didn't make any sense to cook for just one because with practices, games, classes, and study groups, he never saw Gregory. He’d almost swear he lived alone if it weren’t for the laundry. Mountains of mud-stained, repulsive, stinking baseball uniforms and practice clothes appeared like magic in front of the washer. He’d gotten really good at knowing how to remove that difficult ring around the collar, and around the armpit, and around the knees.

He didn’t mean to be pitiful. He honestly didn’t. But Oxford graduate. (No, not Oxford, Mississippi; the proper Oxford.) The position at the Consulate in Miami never materialized. No matter what he tried, his internet wasn’t sufficient and no number of calls to the backwoods provider made it so. If he were honest, he'd spent more time wallowing in pity than calling anyone, but that didn't change anything.

He tried convincing himself seeing Gregory happy was worth it. But that was the problem. Mycroft never saw him, and he missed Greg every minute of every day. His heart ached at the loss of who they were together when they lived up north.  
“I hate telling people we’re just friends, but Greg says it's best for us until he can talk to Coach.” Mycroft smiled wanly, hoping Ashley would leave it alone.

“Sugar, I've been married to Stamford for almost 5 years and I've known him more than 10. I can tell you, one person doesn't get to make the rules for two. You should talk to that boy.” Ashley rubbed Mycroft’s back before jumping out of her seat when the Pens’ batter hit a grand slam.

“I know you're right.” Mycroft looked around at the frenzy with no idea what had just happened; why couldn’t baseball be simple like cricket? He assumed the game was over, since the people around him were leaving.

Ashley slipped on her Lake Jesup State College jacket and zipped it up. “I can talk to Stamford and tell him—”

Mycroft scrabbled at Ashley’s sleeve, grabbing harder than he’d intended. “Don’t. Promise me you won't.” He felt the tension pulling at his shoulders, sitting in the back of his neck.

Ashley propped her sunglasses on top of her head and looked Mycroft in the eye. “I promise, but you have to talk to Greg.”

“I will. Tonight.” Mycroft took a deep breath and smiled. “He promised me he would talk to Mike. Maybe he already has.”

Ashley nodded with a weak smile; bless his heart, her husband was a good man, but he wasn’t…worldly. If Greg had come out to Stamford, he would have told her immediately.

~*~

Ashley invited several of the players and their girlfriends back to her house for dinner. Greg accepted the invitation, eager to hang with his new friends and relive the game, play by play.

Mycroft stood in the kitchen doorway, not comfortable with the players and not comfortable with their girlfriends. He handed out pizza, emptying box after box, and cleaned up spills. Eventually he stood in a corner checking out the BBC app on his phone. What he wanted to do was be close to Greg who looked amazing tonight.

Greg thrummed with post-game adrenaline, talking with his hands as fast as he was with his words. Mycroft lusted this Greg, eyes flashing, smiling, charming. He felt the electricity across the room, the heat pooling at the base of his cock. It had been too fucking long; he could count on one hand the number of times they'd made love since moving to Florida.

Mycroft’s cock throbbed, and he sat at the dining room table until he could will his erection away. The first time Greg yawned, Mycroft hurriedly said their goodbyes.  
Ashley saw them to the door and hugged him. “Please talk to him.”

He nodded against her cheek. “Tonight.”

When they were outside, Mycroft took the keys from Greg's hands. “I'm sure you're exhausted. I’ll drive.”

“Thanks, babe. I really am.” Greg smiled which turned into another yawn.

Babe?

As Mycroft drove, he thought about Greg. Getting near him. Kissing him. Taking him to bed. Stripping him and sucking him off with teasing patience. And before Greg could come, Mycroft would beg, Fuck me. Greg would make that tiny noise deep in his throat, and they’d fuck hard and fast, and fall exhausted and spent onto the mattress and everything would be fine.

Mycroft fidgeted in his seat, his cock pushing at the zipper of his jeans. After two blocks, he pulled the car off to the side and threw it in park.

“Have I told you how fucking hot you look in your uniform?" Mycroft wrapped his arms around Greg's neck, surprising him. He pulled them together into a hot and hard, sloppy and needy kiss. Their hands frantically explored each other’s bodies, tugging at shirts to reach skin.

“Jesus Christ, when was the last time we did this.” Greg asked when he broke away from Mycroft’s neck. “It's been too fucking long. God, I miss you so much.” Greg wrapped his fist over Mycroft’s bulging jeans.

“You can’t,” Mycroft panted, pulling Greg’s hand away. “If you touch me, I'll come right now.”

“Just fucking get us home. If you get a ticket, I'll pay it." Greg growled as he sucked a bruise under Mycroft’s jaw.

He stroked Mycroft’s cock through his jeans, and Mycroft moaned, arching his hips into Greg’s touch.

“Drive.”

Mycroft drove home faster than he’d ever managed, dividing his attention between the road and Greg, who was yawning more than Mycroft liked. Greg wouldn't kiss him in the driveway because of the new neighbor, but he winked and said, “I'll race you inside.”  
Greg stopped to grab a water to rehydrate after the beers, and Mycroft blew past him, shedding his jacket on the way to their bedroom. “I need a few moments in the loo. Don’t start without me.”

“No promises.” Greg smiled around the water bottle and followed Mycroft into their room. He undressed and slid between the sheets. “I’m naked. I’m starting!”

Mycroft laughed and rinsed his tooth brush. They needed _this_. He squeezed the base of his cock, already too close. He wanted to last, to make this amazing for both of them.

He opened the loo door.

Greg was asleep.

On his back, naked, the covers pushed down by his feet. He’d thrown his arm over his eyes to shield them from the bedside light.

_Fuck._ Mycroft’s chin fell to his chest and he rolled his head, hoping to relieve some of the pain in his neck.

He nudged Greg's arm to wake him up. “Love, you fell asleep.”

Greg didn't move. Mycroft tried several times, his prods more forceful, but gave up when Greg mumbled _just one more out till we win._

Mycroft put his clothes back on, fighting through the pain he felt. He turned off the lamp and closed the bedroom door before he moved to the kitchen. His mind was a violent jumble of voices yelling at Greg for being stupid, at himself for being stupid, for leaving his home and his job, at Greg for loving his job more than he loved Mycroft, at himself for actually believing that was true, for being too weak to take what he needed.

He made a pot of coffee hoping that the caffeine would shut the voices up. It didn’t; it just made them angrier, which made his head hurt along with his stomach. He needed to sort things out, to talk to Greg about their future. He’d planned on having that conversation after they’d had sex, still reeling from post-orgasm endorphins.

Instead Mycroft sat at the table, the house dark except for the lamp hanging over the kitchen table. He poured another cup of over-brewed coffee and turned on the laptop to search for nonexistent jobs, which led to mindless internet games, then Twitter trolling, which eventually brought him to editing false information into Wikipedia entries.

Already self-loathing, Mycroft decided to Skype his parents at 6am. It was possible they had a certain amount of wisdom about relationships. His mother answered almost immediately.

“Mykie, honey. Look at you. You’re so sunburned. And so thin. Are you eating?” Her smiling face filled his screen. In the background he heard his father’s voice, fussing at the boys.

A lump rose in Mycroft’s throat, and his chin quivered even though he tried to stop it. He missed the boys so much that he physically ached. Mycroft nodded his answer, afraid if he spoke, he would sob instead. With a deep breath, he asked, “What’s new there?”

His mother took the question and spun out an answer that included their work, the boys and their schooling, their French neighbors, learning how to cook from new friends. She slowed as she realized she’d lost Mycroft’s attention.

“What’s wrong, honey. Tell me.” Her voice was so warm, it made his homesickness worse. And the past six weeks tumbled out of him. When he’d told Ashley, he’d kept his emotions in check, but they poured out now.

“—he doesn’t even care. He spends all day at work, all night on the computer.” Mycroft knew he sounded whiny and ridiculous, on the verge of tears, but he kept on. “He doesn’t even notice that I clean and wash his laundry. It’s like he thinks magic elves are responsible—”

Greg cleared his throat. He stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing Mycroft’s pajama bottoms, his arms folded across his chest. His face was pale except for red blotches high on his cheekbones.

Mycroft’s mouth fell open, and he had the grace to blush. “I—”

“Hang up. Now.” Greg’s words were measured.

_You can’t fall asleep and then get up like everything is fine,_ Mycroft wanted to say. The overload of caffeine jangled his nerves but fueled his courage. He hung up the call and stood up, folding his arms. Pursing his lips.

“Who were you talking to?” Greg asked, sharp like when he was angry at John or Sherlock.

Well, Greg couldn’t yell at him. He was a goddamn adult. He could talk to whomever he wanted. “My parents. _They_ actually wish to speak with me,” he said, but his _fuck you_ was clear.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Mycroft. I’m not out drinking and fucking. I’m working and going to school.” Greg threw his hands up and rolled his eyes. “You know that.”

“Do I?” Mycroft pursed his lips harder. He didn’t even know that was a thing. “You’re never here. I don’t know what you’re doing. All I do all day is stay here and clean up after you, do your laundry. You have no idea what that’s even like…”

“What did you just say?” Greg’s voice dropped, his tone dangerous and angrier than Mycroft had ever heard.

_Stop. Stop. Just stop._ Mycroft begged himself to shut up. “You have no idea how hard I work because you’re never here—”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” Greg stepped closer and Mycroft backed away, his shoulders curling in. “For a year I cleaned _your_ house and cooked the meals. You were never home. So don’t you even fucking dare say I have no idea what it’s like.”

Greg took another step closer to Mycroft, poking his finger against Mycroft’s chest. “You agreed to this. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and man up.”

Mycroft barked a laugh. “Man up? You’re one to talk. You fell asleep last night.”

Greg pushed into Mycroft’s space, his shoulders back and chest out. “I fucking came out here to apolo—”

Mycroft grabbed Greg by the shoulders, smashed their mouths together with enough force to cut his lip. He fumbled with the tie on the pajama pants, and fell to his knees. Greg whimpered and Mycroft gripped Greg’s ass with his fingers, pulling him as close as he could, knowing he’d leave ten bruises. He swallowed Greg’s cock to its base and was filthy, sucking hard as he bobbed, his fingers pressing dry into Greg’s hole.

Greg grabbed fists of Mycroft’s hair and held his head still, fucking Mycroft’s mouth. Mycroft unzipped his jeans to pull out his own leaking cock. He tugged, pulled, twisted at himself as Greg abused his mouth. They finished almost together, and Greg pulled his hips back, falling flaccid from Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft stood and without speaking, wiped his hand on the corner of the table cloth, zipped his jeans, and walked away from Greg.

“You can’t walk away. We need to talk.” Greg followed Mycroft to the front foyer, reaching for his arm. “Where are you going?”

Mycroft pulled away and stared. How many times in six weeks had he said we need to talk? “Out.”

If the door slammed behind him, it was just the shitty weather-stripping in this piss-poor house.

 

~*~

Mycroft backed the car out of the garage and drove without purpose. He ended up at the grocery store and parked at the lot’s edge. His anger ebbed, and he replayed every asinine thing he’d said. He’d been a fucking idiot.

His phone pinged with a new text message. He felt a flutter in his stomach knowing it would be Greg begging him to come home and talk. With a small smile, he unlocked the phone.

“Sugar, did you talk to Greg last night?”

Goddamn Ashley. Mycroft threw the phone onto the passenger seat and hid his face in his hands. His breathing stuttered as he gave in and sobbed until he had no tears left.

He drove the half-hour into Orlando and walked around the lake more times than he counted. When his stomach growled, he bought a muffin from a food truck, but with the first bite, his stomach rebelled. He waited for the nausea to pass and fed the muffin to the swans as part of his plan to be pecked to death. At some point after the sun was high in the sky, he stood near the amphitheater and listened to a school band concert.

By the time Mycroft decided to return home, he was hungry, over tired, and chilled to the bone. But he knew what he had to do. Apologize to Gregory, beg for forgiveness, and give this a real try.

Mycroft checked his phone—missed calls from Greg, but no voicemail or texts. He felt his anger flair but tamped it down as he thought of the words he wanted to say. The drive home seemed faster; Mycroft wasn’t sure whether it was dread or hope that made his heartbeat a mess. He pulled into the driveway, and by the time he turned off the ignition, Greg was at his car door.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Greg’s voice rose as he pulled open the driver’s door.

“I’m so sorry, I—” Mycroft slid out of the car and stood arm’s length away. “We need to talk about us and the team and—”

“I fucking thought you were dead.” Greg yelled, his voice cracking, and he swiped at his red eyes.

A thick, sweetly-southern female voice interrupted them. “Proper gentlemen shouldn’t use that kind of language. And I do hear it from your yard at all hours.” Their new neighbor, a petite woman made of steel, apparently had come outside for the sole purpose of chastising them.

Greg and Mycroft stood rooted to the spot. Neither knew how to handle the woman’s comments at that moment. “I do apologize, ma’am,” Greg squeaked out.

“Used to be that people knew how to behave in public. Now they cuss and go around half nekkid, doing the Good Lord only knows what.” She’d moved closer to them, staring through her glasses. “I’m Mrs. Lily Carter, no relation to the president.” She giggled, and Mycroft wondered how many times in her life she’d said that.

“If you’ll excuse us.” Mycroft used his most posh pronunciation and turned away, hoping she would shut up and leave.

“Goodness, not until I know who you are.” She smiled, but it reminded Mycroft more of something dangerous than someone kind.

“I’m Greg Lestrade. I work at the college.” He held out his hand, and she shook it with her fingertips. “And this is—this is my housemate—”

Mycroft turned to Greg. “You know what? Fuck you.” He said it without any heat or anger and somehow, that made it worse. He spun on his heel and walked into the house while the formidable Mrs. Carter lectured Greg about being a good neighbor.

Fifteen minutes later, Greg broke away with a series of _yes ma’ams_. He pushed the front door open as Mycroft pulled it from inside.

“Let’s talk,” Greg said. Then he saw the luggage in Mycroft’s hands. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve called a cab. I’m going home.” Mycroft spoke matter of factly, without hesitation. “I have to think and the silence is too loud here.”

A horn honked twice, and Mycroft walked out of the house. “I’m not ashamed of who I am, and I won’t live with someone who is.”

Greg watched him leave.

~*~

Mycroft returned seamlessly to his position at the British Consulate in New York and no one asked why he came back. He spent long days and often nights at his office, remembering how much he hated the couch there. The house in Fairfield was too big and too quiet. The ghosts of his and Greg’s past haunted him.

Mrs. Hudson yelled when he returned alone. She yelled every time she saw him. It occurred to Mycroft that, except for the accent, she was as big of a pain in the ass as Mrs. Lily Carter. But she had agreed to find him a housekeeper. Someone who would dust and maybe leave a meal in the refrigerator for him to heat up.

As he stepped out of bed onto a pile of laundry, Mycroft made a mental note to ask Mrs. Hudson how _Operation Clean House_ was progressing. He tied a perfect square knot on the belt of his silk dressing gown as he made his way to the kitchen. He’d set the automatic coffeemaker last night, and from the aroma, he’d done it correctly.

As Mycroft hit the bottom stair, the doorbell rang. T _oo early for visitors or neighbors_. He opened the door, not realizing he wore only his dressing gown.

“I’m Greg Lestrade. I’m here about the job.” Standing in front of him, a little older and a little less sure of himself, but with a wide, hopeful smile was his former boyfriend.

“I’m afraid you have the wrong address. I’m looking for a housekeeper.” Mycroft stepped back to close the door, but Lestrade’s hand darted forward, keeping it open.

“My, please. Talk to me.” Greg rushed his words. His stared at his feet, but then he swallowed hard and looked Mycroft in the eyes.

“I don’t have anything to say.” With a half-hearted push, Mycroft tried to shut the front door again.

Greg shoved it back open and stepped inside. “Then just listen.”

Mycroft folded his arms but didn’t say no.

“I fucked up so bad. I made you a promise, and I didn’t keep it.” Greg reached for Mycroft’s hand, but Mycroft’s arms didn’t move. “You were right, and I was wrong.”

Mycroft almost smiled before he caught himself.

“I put a lot of things right, Mycroft. And I want to come back. I want to be with you.” When Greg reached out again, Mycroft allowed him to slide their hands together.

“You have a job and school. You can’t just leave.” Mycroft looked away, listening to his heart beating too loud, too fast.

“But I will. I’ll come back here and keep your house, and I would be honored. Or you could move back to Florida.” Greg crossed his heart. “I know my promises don’t mean much, but I hope you’ll give me another chance.”

Mycroft pulled his hand back and jammed it into the pocket of his gown. “There’s not enough room for two in your closet, Gregory.”

“I don’t have one.” Greg held the glass door open and urged Mycroft outside.

A charter bus idled in front of the neighbor’s house and the Lake Jesup Penguins baseball team stood in Mycroft’s driveway. Stamford and Ashley held a sign that said “Come Home.”

“I told them. About us. About the language. About accepting people. And we voted on coming north in March for a quick trip, and they all voted yes.” Greg waved and his team cheered.

_Ship it!_ Someone yelled.

_Please come back. He’s one mean-ass motherfucker without you around._

Mycroft was certain that came from Cap. Ashley smiled and gave Mycroft the thumbs up.

Greg kissed Mycroft gently on the lips. “I know nothing will have changed for you down there…”

“Actually…” Mycroft smiled sheepishly and rolled his eyes. “The Ambassador gave me hell. Told me to take my head out of my arse and remember that I wield a certain amount of clout, for example, having fiber optics installed for internet. It will easily run the software I need.”

Greg dropped to one knee, and the team cheered. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a velvet box.

“Mycroft Holmes. This month was hell without you. Will you please do me the honor of being my partner, my husband, my love?”

Mycroft pulled Greg up and in front of the team he snogged Greg until he heard someone shout, _Get a room!_

“Be quiet, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg and Mycroft yelled in response.

Mycroft cradled Greg’s face in his hands. “What about Mrs. Lily Carter?”

“Gave that old biddy what-for. She knows you’re mine.” Greg laughed and brought Mycroft’s hands to his lips. “Told her to buy some earplugs, because when you come back, she’s gonna need them.” Greg slid the ring on Mycroft’s left hand ring-finger. “Will you marry me?”

The Novocaine that numbed Mycroft had worn off, and for the first time in a month, he welcomed his emotions. He was a bit sore, a bit tender, but mostly he appreciated the desire to feel again.

“Yes, Gregory. But on one condition. We really need a housekeeper.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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> #weddingDay

**Author's Note:**

> the fic is fully written and ready to go, but I jumped the gun and posted a week early. Look for the next chapters on 3/17, 3/24, 3/31. 
> 
> But y'know, If you wanted to read some other things I've written, I'd be a;sldkfjasldjfa;ksljf thrilled.


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